Neither Here Nor There
by Upstart Crow
Summary: Spock and Bones spend a long shuttle ride transporting their badly injured captain to safety. Conversation never seemed more out of place, but Bones never could help himself.


**note**: This is the first Trek story that I've finished, and I'm not sure if I'm completely satisfied with it or not. It began solely as a character study and then proceeded to go in about three simultaneous different directions, therefore even I am not sure where it ended up. I'd appreciate whatever feedback you can spare, and thank you much in advance for taking the time to read. Cheers and that.

-

A half an hour since they'd left the _Enterprise_, and maybe ten words had been exchanged total. It had to be a record, Bones reckoned. Had to, no contest at all. Were Jim conscious, he'd surely be impressed, but he wasn't and the ship's impulse engines were out thanks to a somewhat unexpected nebula and so they were here racing their way through dead cold space in a tiny shuttle with a captain in a coma. Radiation leak in just his quarters when they'd hit the nebula – _damn_ fishy, if you asked Bones, but the only thing he'd been asked for was his medical opinion and that was that Jim Kirk needed immediate medical attention from the nearest starbase. Leonard McCoy could be quite a persuasive creature regardless of whether necessity called or not, and so he managed to wrangle some decent transportation to get himself and his patient away at a breakneck ambulance pace. The whole thing was appallingly heroic, Bones had decided. Better get a damn medal out of it.

Of course, Bones thought sourly now as he bent over Jim's prone form with his back carefully turned to keep the gaping black viewscreen out of sight, that meant the pilot would probably merit an award too. Spock, naturally, had made up his infernally stubborn Vulcan mind to come along – only logical, Doctor, I _do_ still hold all significant piloting records at the Academy, allow me to pull up every arbitrary irrelevant detail on the subject while we're at it – in what Bones suspected might just be a tiny breach of etiquette, but he hadn't stopped to chat about the specifics. Spock knew how to make shuttles go faster than most humans could manage, anyway, and speed technically was of the essence. Problems solved and no grumbling about it, please and thank you.

The captain's slack, unmoving face was pale and glimmered faintly with sweat that reflected the green lights of the instrument panel. He lay on a makeshift cot in the narrow aisle down the middle of the shuttle; hardly Sickbay, far from that shining white vision called ideal, but Bones supposed it would have to do. Jim wouldn't mind too much – always fancied himself the real working man, didn't he, and now he could do a spot of roughing it for real. Bones dropped two fingers to his throat to check his pulse, a quick half-conscious habit of a gesture, and chanced a glance over his shoulder at Spock's back as he counted off the seconds in his head.

"None of that tachycardia from before," the doctor reported, straightening up with a reflexive flinch for the low bulkhead and stepping over his captain's boots to drop into the co-pilot's seat. He studied Spock's nod, watching his thin lips purse slightly in vaguely intrigued acknowledgement. Downright irritating that he couldn't even get away with flaunting medical know with this one. Terse, knowing talk of blood clots and arrhythmia always, always got people nodding dumbly and gawping like landed flounder after a minute or two regardless of species, but Vulcans were a different kettle of fish, as it were. That, or Spock read up on medical journals just to hold his own on their oft-frequented sparring grounds. Christ, he truly _would_ too, honest to goodness…

Frowning at the thought, Bones bad-temperedly flicked some flotsam from the console in front of him, nicking a few buttons that chirped reproachfully back. Spock actually turned his head to look at him, the most he'd moved since they'd charged out the _Enterprise_'s shuttle bay, and raised an eyebrow, his thin, angular face near-gaunt and exaggerated in the dim light of the shuttle. "Would it be too much to ask you to perhaps keep your hands to yourself, Doctor?"

"Some of us making a living using our hands, Mr. Spock," Bones retorted, propping his feet up comfortably on the edge of the console. There went the rare half an hour of silence between the two of them – it had simply outstayed its welcome, he reasoned. Nothing to do with them in particular, certainly not. "Believe it or not, some people have practical jobs that don't involve pushing buttons and drooling over a scanner for hours – who'd've thought it?"

"Be that as it may, Doctor, said professions are most likely hopeless at piloting shuttles, thus my request stands." Spock stared pointedly at the doctor's offending boots with Bones blinking serenely back – fat chance indeed, Mr. Spock, yes sir – before making a small noise that suggested more than stated resignation and turning back to his displays. Silence resumed.

Bones did know a little about shuttles, in fact, and although he'd bet Spock was relying on keeping busy and self-important, he knew really there wasn't lots for a pilot to look at and do on a long journey, launching and landing business aside. Five minutes, give or take a few, and Spock would need to start pretending that he had things to do – which wasn't a _lie_, exactly, certainly it was well outside those pesky Vulcan parameters of untruth, but it would mean that he'd have to face up to the feelings of concern and anxiety that dug deep beneath their mutual varying degrees of professional. Do you really _like_ seeing him squirm, Jim had asked half-exasperated once, is that why you do it, dig at him for feelings like that, and in truth Bones didn't properly know himself. Something about Vulcan psychology being so alien to his own, maybe – inexhaustible curiosity for the unknown, an unfortunate, inevitable human characteristic, Spock would remark if he could read minds from this distance. Really it wasn't very important so much as it was something they both did and expected, their familiar little back and forth back and forth.

Thinking of it now as he was, Bones was only a little surprised when Spock sat back suddenly, his long fingers sliding almost reluctantly from the controls to settle hesitant and awkward in his lap. It took him a few beats to look over and really meet his companion's eyes – they didn't talk serious real well, Bones thought wryly, not when you put the two of them together – with a quiet look of his own before speaking, his voice halting.

"Do you know…will he survive the flight?"

Badly phrased, maybe, but empathy always went hit or miss with Spock and made him duck his head and look down like right now. The blunt question was a little off-putting, offensive in any other circumstance, even, but the fact that it was their first officer asking made it all different and confused. He _cared_ – and of course he cared, Bones'd caught him caring about Jim more than once before, but each time it was downright startling and made the doctor feel vaguely embarrassed, like he'd pushed too hard against an unyielding door and stumbled in a few steps too far. Clearing the uncomfortable feeling out of his throat, Bones looked away too, casting a glance over at Jim's unmoving shadowy form.

Truth was he didn't know and was damned sick of realising just that – things had seemed bad back on the ship, grim, really, that was the word for it, but Jim Kirk hated giving in more than anything else in the world and so the selfish son of a bitch had ended up in some strange unrecognisable comatose state that maybe was or maybe wasn't stable and could be a side affect of that particular variety of radiation but also couldn't be. The immediate slamming helplessness he'd felt back in Sickbay kicked at his gut again, and he had to take a shaky breath before giving a small shrug. "I don't know," he said finally, half-wondering what he was doing admitting to it, but Spock with all his reluctant emotional misgivings deserved it, damn him. "I – really don't know, Spock. It's more or less up to him, I guess. He's got vital signs that are normal for certain kinds of comas, but for the life of me I don't know how he got there or what he'll jump to next. Hell, even the computer said he's got cockeyed symptoms here, there, and everywhere – what am I supposed to know?"

Spock tilted his head slightly, raising a thin shoulder at an angle. "The computer has no experience with his symptoms and is therefore irrelevant, Doctor. I'm surprised you would factor in its opinion."

"Oh?" Full of surprises today, weren't we. Bones had to let a little delighted smile go by at this crooked inconsistency. "_I'm_ surprised you've even considered the possibility that your precious ship's computer might be wrong, Spock. You sure there weren't any radiation leaks on the bridge too?"

"Computers malfunction, Doctor." The half-Vulcan gave him a flat look – unimpressed, always. "Humans simply disregard logic, as you've just demonstrated. Several decks separate the bridge and the captain's quarters."

He was going there like he did, always – Bones would normally follow sharp and close, never one to let lofty snide remarks pass, but it didn't feel as though either of them had their hearts into it and Jim was still lying there awful and still. Bones bit his tongue lightly, hissing out a breath between closed teeth as he stretched out a fraction and leaned back in his chair. Words felt flat and useless even as they pushed at the back of his dry mouth, so, he supposed, no point in saying anything at all. Spock sighed slightly in the gloom, a quiet, surprisingly weary sound.

"Spock…?"

"Yes?"

"You alright?"

Spock stiffened slightly, one hand rising to grip the edge of the instrument panel. He looked up at Bones again, his stare quizzical and a little suspicious, like maybe he had a vague idea as to why the question was being asked and didn't care for the asker's rationale one bit. "I am...unsure as to the nature of your query," he said finally. There was a bit of irony rattling and banging in that statement, to say the least, but, Bones supposed, Spock had always been better endowed than most to play innocent when it came to misconstrued statements. Some people had all the luck, and if you asked him, God or some other overenthusiastic higher-level-of-geneticist had taken a bad tumble down a flight of pearly stairs before getting around to making this one.

The doctor considered his response, glancing down at his hands. No reason not to cut to the chase, Leonard, no reason at all, but here it was and here was him being oddly serious about this whole thing. "No, you're not," Bones grumbled, taking a breath and lifting his head to meet Spock's eyes. "You really are scared, aren't you. About Jim." He hesitated – and it felt strange, being so forthright and almost righteous, but they were in this small space together and mostly alone with millions of miles of frozen vacuum roaring pressure against their hull and so things had changed. "Christ, Spock, I can _tell_ – I know you, you'll keep it all under wraps and get all high and mighty with me, go ahead, but you _do_ give a damn and it's scaring you, isn't it."

Fear is a human phenomenon, Doctor, certainly he'd heard that pathetic old hat dribble more times than he'd ever laid ears on a broken record, but the appeal of back-and-forths had already worn away to reveal that bare, sort of desperate frankness to their shared space and thus Spock remained silent, his dark brown gaze quickly darting away to fix on the viewscreen above the glowing control panel. After a few moments – perhaps it was conscious, more likely not – the first officer folded his arms across his narrow blue uniformed chest in a distinctly uncomfortable human posture, his chin dropping to his chest with a small frown. Was it really such a terrible thing, Spock, Jim had asked once, being a little human from time to time, but of course he had shrugged and said something smart instead of giving any real and damning answer. Certainly Bones wouldn't have expected one under any other circumstances, but look at them, now, trapped as they were with no one but the other to hide from for hours and hours yet. It occurred to him that just maybe this was a real live heart-to-heart – would've thought it, Jesus! And Spock, frightened, but there was no dry humour in it because Bones felt exactly the same, although he too found he wasn't keen on saying so.

Spock was quiet for a while. No surprise there seeing as he was a meditating type – Bones had never had the patience for that kind of thing and therefore started to feel a bit uncomfortable after perhaps thirty seconds. Where was the _sense_, Chrissakes, in sitting still and ridding one's mind of thoughts when there were things to be done and people to be seen to – but then Spock spoke abruptly, his deep voice soft and touched with just-recognisable self-consciousness, and Bones belatedly realised he'd never _stopped_ thinking, per se.

"Of course I'm worried, Doctor." He cleared his throat a little. "And…perhaps afraid. I have – you know I – I have difficulty saying."

He'd heard Spock say rare little things like it before, was perhaps one of the few people who had, in fact, but hearing this new admission made Bones blink with the suddenness of the affection he felt for the other officer. He was asking for help, after all, in as flat out a way as he knew how. "I know," he said gruffly, kicking his feet off the console so the chair swayed a bit, indecisive always in manufactured gravity. "But it's okay, y'know. He's your friend, you two have been through a lot, he's in a bad way – it's understandable. I feel the same thing - it's _normal_, Spock."

Spock's mouth thinned. Bones caught the glance he threw sideways – wry, still a touch embarrassed as he always got when things headed this way. "No, Doctor," he said finally. "Not really."

He _felt_, sure enough, but he couldn't put carts to horses, as it were, and although 'understandable' here applied to a particular school of thought in a particular gene pool and was therefore understandably difficult to grasp, Bones couldn't help but feel a little sad. When Spock tilted his head at that certain angle with his gaze focusing on that certain distant spot, it said rather loudly to friends and long-time acquaintances that he was lost, suspended and struggling in his rather particular horrible void between two planets that could be called home. Once, the doctor and the captain had gone drinking together, which really just meant holing up in someone's quarters for a while and splitting some halfway decent non-replicated alcohol, and Jim had said something – confided, really, that was the word for telling secrets – about how once Spock, out of his head on one of their bloody adventures, had told him in real tortured honesty that it was embarrassing to call him friend. That had been a long time ago, sure, but some little awkward things didn't go away, especially when you were at a loss for what to do with them.

He wasn't a psychologist and often made damn sure people knew it, but sometimes Bones felt obligated to take advantage of those lost med school classes. "Look, can you…describe what you're feeling, maybe?" he asked uneasily, leaning forward in a slight businesslike way so his boots hit the floor with a thud. "Analytical terms are allowed so long as they're layman's English."

Spock gave him another sideways look. "I'd rather not, Doctor."

"Self-consciousness, Spock?" Bones snorted. "Let me say, it doesn't suit-"

The other shuttle occupant stirred, and suddenly they weren't the only people in space anymore. Both sets of eyes swung around on the abruptly desperate axis of the pilots' chairs – Jim's face was eerie and contorted in the faint light, a bizarre, unsettling thing to see, and his hands jerked at his sides like a diseased orchestral conductor. Another instant and Spock was out of his chair in a smooth, practised motion that felt like he'd been waiting to do and kneeling by their friend's side like a doctor was supposed to do. Always had to do it _better_, Vulcan superiority complex, Freud'd have things to say-

"His heart rate's accelerating," the lean first officer reported calmly, his tone a jarring contrast to the tension in his thin frame as he tucked two pale fingers under Jim's chin at his pulse. Bones knocked his hand away, all business, please and thank you, and checked for himself, but naturally he was right and probably could've spat out a few precise figures given the opportunity. It felt very cramped and wrong, suddenly, the three of them packed so close with their breaths mingling worry in the dark aisle of the shuttle – made it feel like there was something really _wrong_, an ambulance, almost, or a horribly corrupt hearse – but that wasn't for thinking about, Jesus, and Bones shook his head hard to rid himself of the idea as he continued to check his patient's vitals. Elevated brain activity, jumping around the coma scale, visible grimacing like there were nightmares ramming around the inside of his skull – didn't make _sense_, none of this-! _For the life of me, I don't know…_and it felt horrible all over again, that crawling sense of dread and rage that there was no instant gratifying _know_,as though he were a frustrated child or fresh-faced resident on a trauma floor or both over and over.

"Your diagnosis?" Bones expected a wry, resigned tone, something normal from Spock that clearly said he still had no faith in the _Enterprise_ sickbay's medicine, but that quiet, controlled, very particular kind of fear was still there and when he looked up, Spock's dark brown eyes stared seriously, expectantly back. No jokes here – not that Jim's life was anything to laugh about, but really the situation was approaching laughable in how inept he felt. Christ, Spock really _wanted_ a diagnosis too, wanted a trained professional's cold intellectual opinion…

"I…well, dammit, Spock, he's just…"

"Let me?"

Bones didn't know what he meant for a minute, but then he'd raised a long-fingered hand with a question clear and plain in his eyes and of course, a mind-meld. He'd almost gotten used to the Vulcan voodoo stuff but not quite, not quite, and in all honesty he was pretty damn sure he wouldn't adjust in this lifetime, but he'd seen Spock do it enough times to know it was both psychologically dodgy and a rare, rare, private thing. He'd offered just a few sentences about it once over an officer's dinner, something Scotty'd said that set him off – that it wasn't to be taken lightly, that it was as close as Vulcans got to intimacy outside pon'farr times.

Dodgy, though, always. "Spock-" Bones tried to sound outraged and rational simultaneously, a particular speciality on his end, usually, but Jim's thrashing was getting more urgent and violent by the moment and for the life of him a proper amount of righteousindignation wouldn't stay on his face. "You don't know what that'll do, he's in a _coma_, for Chrissakes, you've never done it like that – he's not _aware_ at all, the shock of finding someone else there at a subconscious level could kill him-!"

Spock took a breath, his mouth slightly parted as he nodded without looking away. "He will permit me," he said slowly, and the conviction was _there_ and Bones could tell looking back that Spock knew with an absolute certainty that was unfamiliar even to his companion. Nothing to do but shut your mouth and nod, McCoy, telepathy's out of your league, nothing for it…

The first officer sat up a little and got his legs under him, rocking forward on his knees to lean over the patient. Realising he could hear both of them breathing, this close, Bones watched Spock's solemn dark eyes scan Jim's face with that strange urgency that had crept into his voice – looking for him on that familiar landscape, maybe, hoping quietly to himself like Bones was even though anyone could tell you there was nobody there, what were they thinking, both of them hopelessly illogical. That small pause, and then Spock took another soft breath and laid delicate fingertips against the clammy skin of his captain's face, his shoulders hunching and his forehead furrowing as a different kind of concentration slowly tensed his frame.

Jim's whole body bucked sudden, a reflexive type spasm that made Bones jump and grab his shoulders hard with a doctor's instinct grown from experience. "Take it easy, Jim," he whispered, trying half-heartedly to reassure the friend who couldn't hear him, and realised a second later that Spock, whose head was bent so close to his chest that his forehead nearly touched Jim's, had said the name at the very same time, his voice a near-inaudible rasp. Touch, Bones figured, his eyes wide as he curled himself closer in an attempt to keep some weight on the struggling, still-unconscious man. There had to be a little something of himself in this mental exchange, then, although he felt no different outside of the realisation of this slightly terrifying novelty.

A handful of painstaking moments crawled past, and Jim's broad chest abruptly ceased heaving so dramatically Bones thought for a wild instant he'd had a heart attack, the mule-headed bastard, simply because he'd have to go out with a bang. Spock gasped out suddenly, though, and his breath said with that same unnerving certainty that Jim was still as all right as anyone in a coma could be. "Spock?" Bones demanded, his grip on the captain's shoulders still unchanged, although now he could feel someone trembling violently up through the heels of his hands – they were too close to tell for sure, his shoulder brushing Spock's, Spock's hand pressing hard now against Jim's cheek.

He suddenly got the distinct impression of a wordless reassurance, and although technically it was more than likely that the shuttle life support was malfunctioning and the wisp of thought was an oxygen-deprived hallucination, it also made sense in some frighteningly inexplicable way that Spock was in fact doing something to all three of their minds. Bones grasped vainly at the thought, trying to demand a straight answer – _and you've_ always_ wanted one, Doctor, haven't you, will you attempt to be patient?_ Could be talking to yourself, Leonard, but then again, Spock could be trying to get to Jim and he was just feeling the backwash of it. Best not to interrupt if that was the case, Bones guessed, and wondered not without some irony if maybe now was the time to try clearing his mind.

They sat in cramped stillness for a long while – too difficult to keep track of how long exactly when thinking didn't seem like the best course of action. Bones focused on what little he could see of Spock's face in the dim light, watching through narrowed eyes for little signs of strain or progress or something else human and recognisable and safe, although no doubt Spock would scoff at that. His jaw would tense occasionally, though, and from time to time he'd wince and shake his head slightly like a heavyweight boxer had landed an experimental tap square on his chin. Supposedly he was _good_ at this kind of thing, gifted, you might say, but this whole business of diving into comas after people didn't happen on a regular basis or even ever – it was unprecedented, dark, dangerous territory, and although he seemed to still be aware of himself in some way – Bones couldn't say how he knew, couldn't put a finger on any of this – Spock seemed to visibly struggling to hold the mind-to-mind contact, his body more tense and pained than he'd ever allowed Bones to see previously.

"Spock!" the doctor whispered hoarsely again, his light eyes still trained on what he could see of the Vulcan first officer's face. "Is it working?"

"Your…assistance…Doctor." Spock's voice was laboured and twisted into a helpless whisper at the last word; his lips moved only fractionally, as though he were conserving energy, and the next words came as a jumbled mental flood that rushed in if pouring from a hastily kicked-in dam. _I need your help – neural energy – he's gone deep, critical, need to reach him – I cannot – unaided._

_Christ_, telepathy, mumbo jumbo-! Bones slowly reached out a hand to grasp Spock's elbow and saw that he himself was indeed trembling – he tried to answer, squeezing Spock's arm reassuringly as he attempted to send back a mental message of his own, no worries, can do, but damned if he didn't slur the words out the old-fashioned way like a drunk on the Fourth of July. "Riiight…whatever y'need…"

A little spark between his eyes, like a sharp mental bee sting behind the bridge of his nose, and Bones blinked hard to see Jim raise his head just so in a reflexive kind of jerk and knock his forehead against Spock's through his suddenly spotty, buzzing vision. Sudden movements usually made Spock recoil, step back and judge the situation precisely and logically and that like he did, but he paused there with his eyes open and staring hard back at their captain, the two of them panting into one another's faces like spent wearied greyhounds.

"Spock…" Jim's barely audible voice was hollow, uncertain – the familiar name sounded clumsy.

"Yes." Spock let out a slow, trembling breath as he repeated the name he'd said before in his half-trance, his free hand slipping unconsciously down to grasp the captain's. "Jim."

Bones was inches away, the hand still grasping Spock's arm torn between letting go to check his friend's vitals and holding on for dear lives, if the three of them were in fact all still holding one another together, and yet he'd begun to realise that really he wasn't very important at all at the moment. Spock's gaze had a dark intensity to it the doctor knew for certain he hadn't seen before, that same unvoiced reassurance mixed with something deeply private, a quiet, intimate something for Jim only that showed in the tilt of his head and the quiet worry in his eyes. Besides their breathing, they were still enough to make Bones think that they were distracted by the intangible, talking back and forth in their near-mutual heads like regular old telepaths even though Jim couldn't do that, could he – but maybe he could, who knew, considering all the scientific conditions of the situation and then that strange, insistent conviction of Spock's that he knew Jim's mind well enough to join it without permission? It's not like you're an expert, McCoy, get a damn _grip_, will you, what do you think you're thinking…?

Spock pulled away suddenly with a sharp hiss of breath so his hand slipped from Jim's face and his arm tore itself from Bones' grip, a flicker of dead weariness darting past on his slackened, unprepared face. His narrow shoulders heaved as though he'd gone and run a marathon in however long a time they'd been sitting there – and it had been a _while_, Jesus, where had the time gone – Bones' legs were cramped and stiff like he'd been curled up awkwardly by Jim's side for an age. A quick glance down revealed the captain to be unconscious again, a sight that sent the doctor's heart roaring an alarm in his chest, but Spock shook his head violently as soon as he'd touched his tricorder. "You'll find…he's…sleeping normally, Doctor." His forced exhale was shaky but suggested at an attempt at regaining control, normal Spock behaviour, instantly recognisable, business as usual, of course, of course, but Bones found even that didn't relax him just yet. "I believe I…I have stabilised his condition."

He checked anyway, and of course the amateur doctor had to be right. Pissed him off to no end, it did, but what actually mattered was that Jim was halfway stable and far closer to "all right" than he'd been for hours now. The medal went to Spock, Bones supposed with some detachment, although he'd never be the one to say it. He looked up expectantly, examining Spock's unnaturally pale face not without some bewilderment – what had happened, exactly, what had passed in those dragged-out, inaudible seconds to make him so ill-looking now? Being someone who'd known him for ages, Bones knew the Vulcan officer was always the slightest bit of self-conscious coming out of mind-melds, but now he was downright tangibly uncomfortable; he determinedly avoided looking at Bones and also down at his lap where his hand still gripped Jim's in a tight, dazed hold, as if he wasn't quite ready to acknowledge his own consciousness yet.

"Did it work?" Bones asked tentatively after a few beats, feeling awkward and intrusive again even though he couldn't pinpoint _why_, no reason to feel this way with his two closest friends. He leaned back against the shuttle wall, casting a glance at the dark viewscreen and realising with a queasy jolt that the constellations had changed since they'd abandoned the controls to come to the patient's side.

Spock sighed slightly, raising his other hand to rub his eyes – he seemed to be vaguely nonplussed by his own exhaustion. "If you're referring to the radiation, I cannot do anything for him, hence our continued course to Starbase Sixty Two. The coma was, I believe, self-induced, some sort of unconscious reaction to the exposure…I…brought him out of it."

"How'd you manage that one?"

Dark, slanted eyebrows contracted slightly as Spock turned his head. "He…knew I was there."

Bones raised an eyebrow at the short, almost terse answer – no analysis there, not even an attempt to explain, and Christ but this was all so uncharacteristic and overwhelming and he couldn't help but glance again at the captain and first officer's hands clasped so tightly in Spock's lap even though he was certain Jim was really out, sleeping deep and dreamless far beyond either of their reach. Spock saw him looking, and each met the other's uncertain stare the same time as their chins lifted in unison and Bones – got it, suddenly, felt his stomach bottom out as the weight of the _feeling _he saw there but hadn't known could exist hit him hard and unexpected.

"Bones." He never called him Bones, never, not Leonard or McCoy or anything, always called him Doctor, never anything else, it almost sounded like he was pleading – what – "I…you won't speak of this, will you?"

The doctor saw the feeling so clear and certain there he almost could have said it aloud for Spock, who could only feel the words in the back of his throat where they couldn't be heard, much less said. He stared back at his friend, looking for a change and finding nothing substantial besides that quiet, misplaced fear that Bones suddenly wanted to see gone. He nodded, a wry grin tugging suddenly at the corner of his thin mouth. "Even if my unworthy human self could conceive the high-and-mightiness of this Vulcan nonsense of yours, I wouldn't say anything," he promised, pulling himself upright with some difficulty and giving Spock an affectionate knock on the shoulder. Difficult to wrap his mind around, maybe, difficult to even approach even as a thought, but the other one needed this, damn him, and really there was nothing else for it but to tell him it would be alright.

A quiet, sceptical snort from Spock as he rose soundlessly to resume his place in the pilot's seat, and things resembled normal for a brief moment. It was easy to forget little occurrences in space, especially on long voyages, and Bones had important things like getting somewhere and a still-very-sick patient and also a friend's life to worry about and so he resolved to forget for a while. A while, he couldn't help but wonder as he glanced over to watch Spock's impassive face change dim colour with the flicker of lights on the panel in front of him, had to be a very long time when you only had thoughts for company.


End file.
